Sworn Brother v-2 Page 3

  TWO

  My attacker released his grip and allowed me to roll over and look up. A small, thick-set man was standing over me, dressed in a patched and worn tunic, heavy hose and scuffed leather leggings. His grey hair was cropped close to his skull, and I guessed he must be in his mid-fifties. What struck me most was how battered and weatherbeaten he looked. Deep lines were etched across his face and his cheeks were mottled with dark red blotches as if someone had scoured them with sand. An angry scowl pulled his eyebrows so far down that his eyes almost disappeared into his skull. He looked thoroughly dangerous, and I noted a well-used dagger with a stag-horn handle tucked into his leather belt and wondered why he had not drawn it. Then I remembered how easily he had bundled me out of the shed, as if I was no more than a child.

  'What were you doing in the hawk shed?' he demanded furiously. He spoke the language of the Saxons, close enough to my native Norse for me to understand, but with a country accent, deep and deliberate, so that I had to listen closely. 'Who gave you permission to go in there?'

  'I told you,' I replied placatingly, 'I was looking for Edgar. I had no idea that I was doing any harm.'

  'And the gyrfalcon? What were you doing near it? What were you trying? To steal it?'

  'No,' I said. 'I wanted to remove the thread so that it could open its eyes.'

  'And who said you could do that?' He was growing even more angry, and I was worried that he would lose control and give me a beating. There was no answer to his question, so I kept silent.

  'Imbecile! Do you know what would have happened? The bird would have panicked, left its perch, thrashed around. Escaped or damaged itself. It's in no condition to fly. And that bird, for your information, is worth ten times as much as you are, probably more, you miserable lout.'

  'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I recognised the bird and I've never seen them with their eyes sewn shut before.'

  My reply set him off again. 'What do you mean "recognised?" he snarled. 'There are no more than five or six birds like that in the whole of England. That's a royal bird.'

  'Where I come from, there are quite a few.'

  'So you're a liar as well as a thief.'

  'No, believe me. I come from a place where those birds build their nests and raise their young. I only entered the shed to look for you, if you are Edgar, because I was told to find him and report to him for work.'

  'I asked for a kennelhand, not a thieving Dane with sticky fingers like all the rest of them. I can recognise your ugly accent,' he growled. 'Get on your feet,' and he let loose a kick to help me up. 'We'll soon learn whether you're telling the truth.'

  He marched me back to the burh and checked my story with Aelfgifu's harassed steward. When the steward confirmed who I was, Edgar spat deliberately — the gob of spittle just missed me — and announced, 'We'll see about that then.'

  This time we returned to the kennels and Edgar lifted the latch on the low gate which led into the dog-run. Instantly a hysterical brown, white and tan cascade of tail-wagging confusion swirled forward and engulfed us. The dogs barked and howled, though whether with enthusiasm or hunger I could not tell. Some leaped up at Edgar in affection, others pushed and shoved to get closer, a few cringed back, or ran off into the corner and defecated in their excitement. The kennel smelled abominable, and I felt a sharp pain in my calf where one mistrustful dog had run round behind me to give me an experimental bite. Edgar was completely at ease. He plunged his hands into the heaving mass of dog flesh, petting them, rubbing ears fondly, calling their names, casually knocking aside the more exuberant animals which tried to leap up and lick his face. He was in his element, but for me it was a vision of the abyss.

  'This is where you will work,' he said bluntly.

  I must have looked aghast, for he allowed himself the glimmer of a smile. 'I'll show you your duties.' He crossed to the far side of the dog-run, where a long, low shed was built against the fence. He dragged open the ill-fitting door and we went inside. The interior was almost as bare as the hawk shed, only this time there was no sand on the earth floor and instead of bird perches, a wide wooden platform had been constructed down one side of the building. The platform was made of rough wooden planks, raised about a foot above the ground on short posts. Its surface was covered with a thick layer of straw, which Edgar pointed at. 'I want that turned over daily, so that it's well aired. Pick up any droppings and put them outside. When you've a sackful of turds, you'll be carrying it to the tannery for the leather-makers. Nothing like a strong solution of dog shit to soften the surface of hides. Then every three days, when the straw is too soiled, you change all the bedding. I'll show you later where to find fresh straw.'

  Next he pointed out three low troughs. 'Keep these topped up with drinking water for the dogs. If they get fouled, you're to take them outside and empty them — I don't want the floor in here any more damp than it already is - then refill them.' As he made his remark about the damp floor, he glanced towards a wooden post hammered into the ground about halfway along the shed. The post was wrapped with straw and there was an obvious damp patch around it. I realised it was a urinating post. 'Every three days you change that straw as well. Let the dogs out into the run first thing every morning. That's when you will change their straw bedding. They're to be fed once a day - mostly stale bread, but also meat scraps from the main kitchen, whatever is left over. You are to check through the scraps to make sure that there's nothing harmful in the swill. If any dog is sick or off-colour, and there's usually one or two, you're to let me know at once.'

  'Where will I find you?' I asked.

  'I live in the cottage opposite the hawk shed. Behind my house you'll find the lean-to where the straw is kept. If I'm not at home, probably because I'm out in the forest, check with my wife before you touch any of the stores. She'll keep an eye on you to make sure that you're doing your job thoroughly. Any questions?'

  By now we had re-emerged from the dog shed and were back at the entrance to the dog-run. 'No,' I said, 'you've made everything very clear. Where do I sleep?'

  He gave me a look of pure malice. 'Where do you expect? With the dogs, of course. That's the right place for a kennelman.'

  My next question was on the tip of my tongue, when the expression on his face decided me not to give him the satisfaction of asking it. I was going to enquire, 'What about my food? Where do I take my meals?' But I already knew the answer — 'With the dogs. You eat what they do.'

  I was right. The next days were among the most vile that I ever spent and I have lived under some unspeakable conditions. I ate and I slept with the dogs. I picked out the better scraps from their food for my own meals, I caught their fleas and I spent a good deal of my time avoiding their teeth. I loathed them, and took to carrying a cudgel - which I hid under the dog platform whenever Edgar appeared — and used it to clout any dog that came too close to me, though some of the nastier ones still tried to circle round behind me and attack. The experience gave me ample time to wonder how on earth people could become fond of their dogs, least of all such unlovely hounds as these. In Ireland the clan chiefs had been proud of their wolfhounds, and I had understood why. Their dogs were resplendent, elegant animals, aristocratic with their long legs and haughty pace. But Edgar's pack was, to all appearances, a bunch of curs. Half the height of a wolfhound, they had short faces, sharp snouts and untidy fur. The predominant colour was a drab brown, though a few had patches of black or of tan, and one dog would have been all white if it had not kept rolling in the filthiness. It was incredible to me that anyone would take the trouble to keep a pack of them. Several months later I learned that they were known as 'Briton hounds' and their forebears had been gready valued as hunting dogs by those same Romans who had built the Wailing Street. My informant was a monk whose abbot was a sporting priest and ran a pack of them, and he told me that these Briton hounds were valued for their courage, their tenacity and their ability to follow the scent whether in the air or on the ground. How the dogs managed to follow a scent amazed
me, for they themselves stank exceedingly. In an attempt to keep my purple tunic from being tainted, I took the precaution of hanging my faithful leather satchel from a peg in one of the upright posts, as high up as I could manage, for I knew for certain that, within hours, I reeked as much as my canine companions.

  Edgar came to visit the kennel both morning and afternoon to check on me as well as his noxious hounds. He would enter the dog-run and wade nonchalantly through the riot of animals. He had an uncanny ability to spot any of them that were cut, scratched or damaged in any way. Then he would reach out and grab the dog and haul it close. With complete assurance he folded back ears, prised apart toes looking for thorns, and casually pulled aside private parts, which he called their yard and stones, to check that they were not sore or bleeding. If he found a gash, he produced a needle and thread, and with one knee pinned down the dog while he stitched up the wound. Occasionally, if the dog was troublesome, he would call on me to assist by holding it, and of course I got badly bitten. Seeing the blood dripping from my hand, Edgar gave a satisfied laugh. 'Teach you to stick your hand in his mouth,' he jeered, making me think instantly of the one-handed huscarl. 'Better than a cat bite. That'd go bad on you. A dog bite is clean and healthy. Or at least it is if the dog isn't mad.' The dog which had bitten me certainly didn't look mad, so I sucked at the puncture wounds left by its teeth and said nothing. But Edgar wasn't going to miss his opportunity. 'Do you know what you do if you get bitten by a mad dog?' he asked with relish. 'You can't suck hard enough to get out the rottenness. So you get a good strong barnyard cock, and strip off his feathers, all of them, until he is arse naked. Then you clap his fundament on the wound and give him a bad fright. That way he clenches up his gut and sucks out the wound.' He guffawed.

  My ordeal would have lasted much longer but for the fact that I mislaid a dog on the fourth day. Edgar had told me to take the pack to a grassy area a few hundred paces from the kennel. There the animals were encouraged to chew the blades of grass for their health. During that short excursion I managed to lose track of the number of hounds I took with me, and when I brought them back into the dog-run I failed to notice that one was missing. Only when I was shutting the dogs up for the night and took a head count, did I realise my error. I closed the kennel door behind me, and walked back to the grassy area to see if I could find the missing hound. I did not call the dog because I did not know its name and, just as importantly, I did not want to alert Edgar to my blunder. He had been so hostile about the possible loss of a hawk that I was sure he would be furious over a missing dog. I walked quietly, hoping to spot the runaway lurking somewhere. There was no dog by the grass patch, and, thinking that the animal might have found its way to the back door of Edgar's cottage to scavenge, I went to check. Just as I rounded the corner of the little house, I heard a slight clatter, and there was Edgar.

  He was kneeling on the ground with his back to me. In front of him was a square of white cloth spread on the earth. Lying on the cloth where he had just dropped them lay a scatter of half a dozen flat lathes. Edgar, who had been looking down at them intently, swung round in surprise.

  'What do they say?' I asked, hoping to forestall the outburst of anger.

  He regarded me with suspicion. 'None of your business,' he retorted. I began to walk away when, unexpectedly from behind me, I heard him say, 'Can you read the wands?'

  I turned back and replied cautiously, 'In my country we prefer to throw dice or a tafl. And we bind our wands together like a book.'

  'What's a tafl?'

  'A board which has markers. With practice one can read the signs.'

  'But you do use wands?'

  'Some of the older people still do, or knuckle bones of animals.'

  'Then tell me what you think these wands say.'

  I walked over to where the white cloth lay on the ground, and counted six of the wooden lathes scattered on it. Edgar was holding a seventh in his hand. One of the lathes on the ground was painted with a red band. I knew it must be the master. Three of the wands on the ground were slightly shorter than the others.

  'What do you read?' Edgar asked. There was a pleading note in his voice.

  I looked down. 'The answer is confused,' I said. I bent down and picked up one of the lathes. It was slightly askew, lying across another wand. I turned it over, and read the sign marked on it. 'Tyr,' I said, 'the God of death and war.'

  Edgar looked puzzled for an instant and then the blood drained from his face, leaving the ruddy spots on his cheekbones even brighter. 'Tiw? You know how to read the marks? Are you sure?'

  'Yes, of course,' I replied, showing him the marked face of the wand. The symbol on it was the shape of an arrow. 'I'm a devotee of Odinn and it was Odinn who learned the secret of the runes and taught them to mankind. Also he invented fortune dice.. It's very plain. That rune is Tyr's own sign. Nothing else.'

  Edgar's voice was unsteady as he said, 'That must mean that she is dead.'

  'Who?'

  'My daughter. Four years ago a gang of your Danish bandits took her away during the troubles. They couldn't attack the burh — the palisade was too strong for them - so they made a quick sweep around the perimeter, beat my youngest son so badly that he lost an eye and dragged off the girl. She was just twelve. We've not heard a word from her since.'

  'Is that what you wanted to know when you cast the wands? What had become of her.'

  'Yes,' he replied.

  'Then don't give up hope,' I said. 'The wand of Tyr was lying across another wand, and that signifies the meaning is unclear or reversed. So your daughter may be alive. Would you like me to cast the sticks again for you?'

  The huntsman shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Three casts at a time is enough. Any more would be an affront to the Gods and, besides, the sun has set and now the hour is no longer propitious.'

  Then his suspicions came back with a rush. 'How do I know you're not lying to me about the runes, like you lied about the gyrfalcon.'

  'There's no reason for me to lie,' I answered, and began picking up the wands, the master rod first and then the three shorter, calling out their names, 'rainbow, warrior queen, firm belief.' Then, collecting the longer ones, I announced, 'The key-holder, joy,' and taking the last one from Edgar's fingers I said, 'festivity.'

  To establish my credentials even more clearly, I asked innocenctly, 'You don't use the wand of darkness, the snake wand?'

  Edgar looked dumbfounded. He was, as I later found out, a countryman at heart, and he believed implicitly in the Saxon wands, as they are called in England where they are much used in divination and prophecy. But only the most skilled employ the eighth wand, the snake wand. It has a baleful influence which affects all the other wands and most people, being only human, prefer a happy outcome to the shoot, as the Saxons call the casting of the rods. Frankly I thought the Saxon wands were elementary. In Iceland my rune master Thrand had taught me to read much more sophisticated versions. There the wands are fastened to a leather cord, fanned out and used like an almanac, the meanings read from runes cut on both sides. These runes — like most seidr or magic - reverse the normal forms. The runes are written backwards, as if seen in a mirror.

  'Tell my wife what you just said about our daughter,' Edgar announced. 'It may comfort her. She has been grieving for the girl these four years past.' He ushered me into the cottage — it was no more than a large single room, divided across the middle into a living area and a bedroom. There was an open fire at the gable wall, a plain table and two benches. At Edgar's prompting I repeated my reading of the wands to Edgar's wife, Judith. The poor woman looked pitifully trustful of my interpretation and timidly asked if I would like some proper food. I suspected that she thought that her husband had been treating me very unfairly. But Edgar's loathing was understandable if he thought I was a Dane, like the raiders who had kidnapped his daughter and maimed his son.

  Edgar was obviously weighing me up. 'Where did you say you come from?' he asked suddenly.

  'Fr
om Iceland and before that from Greenland.'

  'But you speak like a Dane.'

  'Same words, yes,' I said, 'but I say them differently, and I use some words that are only used in Iceland. A bit like your Saxon. I'm sure you've noticed how foreigners from other parts of England speak it differently and have words that you don't understand.'

  'Prove to me that you come from this other place, this Greenland or whatever you call it.'

  'I'm afraid I don't know how to.'

  Edgar thought for a moment, and then said suddenly, 'Gyrfalcon. You said you come from a place where the bird builds its nests and raises its young. And I know that it does not do so in the Danes' country, but somewhere further away. So if you are really from that place, then you know all about the bird and its habits.'

  'What can I tell you?' I asked.

  He looked cunning, then said, 'Answer me this: is the gyrfalcon a hawk of the tower, or a hawk of the hand?'

  I had no idea what he was talking about and when I looked baffled he was triumphant. 'Just as I thought. You don't know anything about them.'

  'No,' I said 'It's just that I don't understand your question. But I could recognise a gyrfalcon if I saw it hunting.'

  'So tell me how.'

  'When I watched the wild spear falcons in Greenland, they would fly down from the cliffs and perch on some vantage point on the moors, like a high rock or hill crest. There the bird sat, watching out for its prey. It was looking for its food, another bird we call rjupa, like your partridge. When the spear falcon sees a rjupa, it launches from its perch and flies low at tremendous speed, faster and faster, and then strikes the rjupa, knocking it to the ground, dead.'